


Conversing with No One

by JessicaMDawn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Sherlock has tunnel vision, talking to yourself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:05:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4457690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessicaMDawn/pseuds/JessicaMDawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock talks to John when he isn't there. No pairing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conversing with No One

**Author's Note:**

> I was going through my documents and found several finished but unposted works. This is one of them. A short nonsensical ficlet based on the habit mentioned in A Scandal in Belgravia, where Sherlock talks to John when he isn't there.

It was early afternoon at Baker Street and Sherlock was bent over his microscope, examining a powdery residue off the shoe of a boy who had been found on the river bank. John was, as usual, typing away at his laptop.

"The powder is some form of dust," Sherlock murmured, but it was aimed at John and Sherlock knew John knew that. The typing stopped.

Sherlock examined the dust under the microscope for several more seconds. Then he took a different sample of that same dust and began testing it to see what sort of dust it might be. He already had six possible contenders just based on the texture, smell, and color alone.

"Probably...no. Most definitely brick dust." He tapped his last bit of untested sample with the tip of his index finger. "And it's completely dry. Curious, don't you think, that such dry dust would be found on the bottom of the shoe of a boy who drowned?"

Sherlock walked over to where he'd left the case file on the coffee table and scanned the words there once more.

"Obviously, Lestrade needs a better detective force. Water in the lungs but no sign of a drop of liquid anywhere else on the body, and he drowned in the Thames? They're all imbeciles, John. Every last one of them," he commented dryly, flipping through the papers a bit more. "You can include that in your precious blog."

It was all pointless, really. He'd memorized the file minutes after receiving it. It seemed he was hoping someone on the force had magically discovered something useful for once and slipped it in.

"Though obviously he was killed by his father, it's a wonder yet as to why," Sherlock mused aloud several minutes later, again inspecting the bits off the bottom of the shoes under his microscope, settled in the kitchen. "Granted, he wasn't a great student, but his performance wasn't all bad. And he obviously had self confidence issues, if the state of his nails is anything to go by. How was your relationship with your father, John?"

He shook his head dismissively.

"Never mind. I already know. Dismal to say the least," he quipped a bit darkly. "He didn't agree with your decision to join the army after all those years in school becoming a doctor. Or rather, he didn't agree with the pay. Your mother, on the other hand, loved that you were serving your country. She's the only reason you and your father are still on speaking terms. Your sister doesn't care either way as long as you don't tell her to listen to you 'because you're a doctor.' Her alcoholism is coming back, by the way. You should probably look into that."

He leaned back in his chair, stretching briefly, and nearly lost the sheet that wrapped around his waist. It was the only thing between him and being starkers, though to be honest it was just him and John in the flat so what did it matter if he wore clothes? Clothes were boring.

"You know, I really don't think you should be allowed to criticize my relationship with Mycroft, since you speak to your father less than I speak to my brother," he noted absently before looking back into the microscope lens. He scoffed, a realization sticking in his brain. "Construction worker and an alcoholic. Of course that's how he died." He sighed. "Time to call Lestrade. Can I borrow your phone, John?"

There was no answer. Sherlock's brain paused in its thinking and he pulled back from the lens again to look around the flat. It was dead silent. There was no one there. There were no tell tale signs of creaking floor boards or running faucets or sniffling noses. He was all alone.

"John?"

Nothing. Sherlock glanced at the clock. It was almost dinner time. Time flew when you were having a good conversation, he supposed. But where was John then? He must have left while Sherlock was talking to him.

And people claimed _Sherlock_ was rude.

...

...

_fin._


End file.
